


Feast of Losses

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Canon Flirtations [1]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beverly's life is a story of losses and gains.</p><p>Takes place starting shortly after "The Host" and moves forward in varying time lapses.</p><p>For Seema, who wanted Riker/Crusher. It was nearly R/C, anyway. It's still All Your Fault.(tm) And thank you, thank you, for the beta and the suggestions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feast of Losses

 

Oh, I have made myself a tribe  
out of my true affections,  
and my tribe is scattered!  
How shall the heart be reconciled   
to its feast of losses?

\----Excerpt, "The Layers" by Stanley Kunitz

*******************

_Stardate 44810.4_

"Thanks for helping me tear down," she said, pulling the last of the fabric from the false wall.

"No problem." Will picked up a stray hat dropped by one of the clowns in the play. He jingled it at her and tossed it into the prop bin. "It was a good play, just what we needed."

Beverly grinned at the way it had all worked out. "It was, wasn't it? I enjoyed working with all the kids. They're so oblivious to everything we have to deal with--all they know is the captain has everything under control."

"The innocence of youth. Isn't it unfair? Everyone looks at the captain like everything is his great accomplishment, while we do most of the work." He said it in a completely-joking way, but she wondered. Of course, if he meant it, why hadn't he taken a ship of his own already? He moved the prop box off the stage, grunting as he picked it up. "It's a little like the play--the director gets all the credit while the actors and the stage hands get all the hands-on work."

"I didn't twist your arm." She finished folding the rough fabric she'd used to drape over a false window. "And I'm still here, too."

He went to the walls, now bare, and started unsnapping the joins to fold down the sections. "I could use a drink. What do you say we go for one when this is all put away?"

"We ran late--Ten Forward does close up after midnight."

"I've got something in my quarters." He glanced over his shoulder as he said it, flashing her a smile.

Was he merely being his usual flirtatious self? Deanna had said once he would flirt with anyone, given the right circumstances. It didn't necessarily mean anything. It had never meant anything before Odan, it shouldn't mean anything now.

Except she wouldn't be thinking that if it meant nothing to her. Would she?

_It's been too long since I relaxed and let life happen. He's a friend. I'm analyzing things too much._

"Sure, why not? As long as it isn't that green stuff you tried to get me to drink at the last poker game."

The banter as they finished cleaning up was light and easy, as it hadn't been for a while. But as they approached his quarters, she found herself wanting to wipe her palms on the skirt of her dress, and forcing herself not to. He led her in, replicating glasses, setting them out on the table, and disappearing into his bedroom for a moment to bring his idea of good liquor out of hiding.

It was green. She wrinkled her brow at him.

"It's not the same," he said, holding the bottle up between them. "It's just the same color, only darker." He poured with a steady hand. In the glass it did look different, effervescent and pale, with trails of bubbles running up the sides. She tasted it and was pleasantly surprised.

"Like champagne," she exclaimed, feeling the carbonation in her sinuses. "Only more invasive."

"Wait 'til you get the full impact--take another sip of it."

The flavor, pale and sour-sweet, erupted with the second taste into something she wanted to analyze in sickbay--for a full five seconds, after which she only wanted to reproduce the explosion and the lingering strong melody of aftertastes. Another mouthful produced the same effect. He smiled behind his own glass, already down to halfway on his drink.

"What's it called?"

"It's from Ganymede. The colony in Sterbis sector, not the moon of Jupiter. It's made from one of the fruits produced by the local flora. They call it a starburst. Doesn't do it justice, does it? The bar I found it in on Risa renamed it 'supernova for two.'"

"For two?"

He approached, tilting his head as he got close, and she knew--she'd known when he invited her, she'd known when they walked in, why be surprised--that he was going to kiss her. And the reaction of the chemicals in the drink on their tongues combining made her jerk away. He blinked, watched her with anxiety dancing in his eyes, and blinked again when she laughed.

"I can see the bar on Risa is a stickler for accuracy."

He laughed too, and turned away to put down his glass. "Told you you'd like it."

"There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about." Oh, hell, that sounded like the beginnings of an I-regret-to-inform-you. "It's been two weeks, and I've wanted to, but I thought if some time went by that we could discuss it without a lot of emotional turmoil."

"Okay." He folded those long legs and tucked himself into the couch, an arm across the back. "Have a seat."

At least he was relaxed about it. She left her drink with his on the table and sat on the edge of the couch, out of reach, hands in her lap. Like a meek teenager, she thought scornfully, but left her fingers curled together in the folds of her skirt. "Are you still upset about it?"

He sucked in his upper lip and drew his mustache slowly over his bottom teeth. "Was I upset?"

She paused, not quite believing it. "You don't remember it?"

"You put Odan in me, to save his life. I remember negotiating--I recall his concern for my welfare, and yours. That last night I had a terrible fever. Odan had this wild dream about you, and it confused the hell out of me, until I woke up the next morning in my bed with the covers on the floor and in a cold sweat, and then you came in and hurried me off to sickbay."

Her stomach threatened to throw the delicious drink out all at once, in a solid lead ball from the feel of it. "Why were you avoiding me for the last couple of weeks?" she murmured.

"You seemed so uncomfortable around me that I thought giving you some space would help. It must've worked--this is the first night we've spent much time relaxed together."

"I appreciate the consideration."

She almost jumped out of her skin when he touched her hair. It felt good, having his fingers running through her hair again --

Again. What was she thinking?

He'd thought it was a dream. What had he asked her here for? She met his eyes; some of her doubt showed, apparently. He let go of her hair and touched the corner of her lips instead, as if trying to pull her mouth into a smile.

"How are you feeling?" That was Will as she knew him, warm and concerned. Serious but still touching her, now on the shoulder in a purely-friendly way. Maybe all of this was friendly. Maybe the drink was that potent, and he'd just gotten a little too friendly, and meant nothing. She certainly felt flushed and hot.

"Much better. It was one of those dive-in-don't-think relationships, and I think I knew it would end but a big part of me really didn't want it to, you know?"

"I know. I've had a few of those." He reeled in his arm, thank goodness, and propped his head in his hand, elbow sinking into the back of the couch. "Still hurts afterward."

"Of course. But I'm a big girl."

That killer smile appeared. "Yes, you are. In all the ways that matter."

"Are you just flirting with me to make me feel better, or what?" It didn't come out nearly as jokingly as she intended. Part of his smile went away. He considered her through his lashes, which she hadn't realized were so long, and finally responded--by putting his hand on her shoulder again.

"We're friends, and I know more about what happened with Odan than anyone else. Which was no one's fault, even his. That symbiont link isn't exactly something you do to keep secrets. You cared about him, a lot, and you haven't talked to anyone about it, have you?"

"Not really. I'm not going to talk to you, either," she said with a smile.

He returned the false smile with flare. "But I was willing, even if you've been avoiding me. So exactly what about Odan did you want to talk about, if it wasn't that?"

"I was avoiding you because," she began, then glanced at the drink. The effects of it would only distract her. She wished for a shot of bourbon. "Because it wasn't a dream. I wish that it was, honestly I do, because I never would have wanted it to happen that way if it happened at all, with you or anyone else, because it was a breach of ethics, but--it wasn't a dream, and I'm very, very sorry, Will."

He stiffened. For too long, he stared at her, incredulous but otherwise giving no sign of his reaction. Then he looked away, running a hand over his beard. "Not a dream."

Anger flowed through her, at herself for what she'd done and at him for being deluded. And at herself for choking on her response. "I didn't intend for it to happen," she said weakly when she could finally speak.

"So, what _did_ you intend?"

"I went. . . to check on him. He told me we shouldn't. He said that at the very beginning. But we both knew that time was running out, I thought you knew, and understood, and that's why you let it happen."

"You thought I was letting you have one last go at your lover before it was over."

"Before he began demanding to be removed from you. Before the experience killed you." Beverly pushed the words out through her teeth, her facial muscles too tight to allow full involvement of the jaw.

One hand went to the back of Will's neck. A familiar pose, usually meaning he'd reached the end of his rope and didn't know what to do. He gave a dry, unamused laugh and shook his head.

She stared at him, still dressed in his period costume and looking very good in it; the navy velour jacket and hose showed him off too well. Even if the full sleeves and slippers were a little silly-looking to her eyes, the jacket only made his shoulders seem broader and the hose. . . . Well, they were silly, too, but at least they showed off his legs. Not that she went for legs, it was usually the eyes that did it, and --

What was she doing? Was she going mad? Her brain must be grasping at anything to save her from confronting the consequences of her situation, i.e., the loss of one friend named Will Riker, and possibly a lawsuit pursued by the same, not to mention a board of inquiry investigating his allegations that his health had been jeopardized.

"I thought you knew, Will, and you didn't, and that's wrong."

"Beverly--"

"I thought you understood that it wasn't going well, and your body was having difficulties with the symbiont, and you were giving me. . . . But I was wrong."

"Beverly, I--"

"I have to find the captain and tell him. I have to hand in my pips. And then I'll have to answer to the Board of Medical Quality Assurance--I won't be able to practice again. And there's still nothing I can do but apologize to you. . . ."

Her stomach lurched. She thought he said something else but stumbled for the door, went through, and was down the corridor in a haze not caring who she ran into. Her quarters, until the queasiness subsided, she decided, and then the captain.

Wait. It was gamma shift, therefore he was asleep. Along with every other sane person reporting for duty first thing in the morning.

Her quarters, then, for the hours she knew she wouldn't sleep, and then a shower, and then the captain's quarters for the breakfast she wouldn't eat, the confession she would make, and the disapproval he would express.

The lights came on as she entered her quarters. She dully recognized the blinking message light on the desk, left it blinking, and went to fall on the bed in numb acceptance of the end of her career.

\---------------

The computer sounded the alarm, rousing her from a stupor. She'd almost slept, but not quite. After a shower and a uniform, she daubed makeup on her face in the vain attempt to simulate adequate sleep. She had it almost all together when, as she left her quarters, the doors opened to reveal Riker standing there, waiting for her. The staredown began. It ended when she gave ground, backing away to give him room to come in, which he did.

"We need to talk," he said as the doors slid shut.

"No. I'm fine now, and I need to keep my calm to confront the captain. Let me go do what I have to--"

"That's why I need to talk to you. Before you go. At least this morning after a hypo and some good black coffee I can think straight. You said you thought I knew what was happening and let it happen?"

Beverly planted the heel of her hand against her eye, where the headache was beginning again. She needed another analgesic. "Damn it, Will, don't do this to me! I have things to take care of before I crash and burn--it took me too long to pull myself together and I don't need this right now!"

"This is important. Why did you think I knew? Why did you think I let it happen?"

"Because. . . ." She backed against the table and leaned on the edge of it. "I don't know, it was your body, your voice, and you seemed. . . . It just didn't seem like you, I mean he, was entirely Odan. There were differences. He had this way of--" She laughed bitterly. "I don't believe I'm explaining this to you! His technique was off. It was Odan's words, it was him making love to me, but at the same time there were things he did that he hadn't done before. . . ."

"Beverly, listen to me," he exclaimed, coming too close and grabbing her arms. "Listen. You don't have to give up your career over this. You're right. It wasn't just Odan. But it _was_ a misunderstanding, on my part. I thought it was a fever dream, but the fact that I remember it--very well, I might add--and added to the. . . experience, should tell you that I did participate. I chose to continue the 'dream.' The way I was feeling, I don't know if I would have been able to stop myself if I hadn't thought it was a dream. Because I do find--because you've always been--it wasn't the first time I thought about it."

The room whirled about in spite of his grip on her arms. She moaned, trying to find her way through to some logical conclusion from this. "Let go of me," she grated.

He did. For a while, her vision blurred--she refrained from rubbing at her eyes, the makeup would smear and make her seem less professional than she was, if that were possible. She inhaled, exhaled, blinked and calmed herself until she could look at him seriously and not leak guilt and shame from the corners of her eyes.

"It doesn't matter what you thought," Beverly said. "What matters is that I've been deluding myself that it mattered. Both of you were patients, I'm the doctor, the chief medical officer, and I should never have allowed it to happen in the first place. I should have sent someone else to check on you. I allowed myself to use official medical concerns as an excuse to see you--him--and once there, I behaved in an improper and potentially dangerous manner. I denied the impropriety to myself and everyone else. I shouldn't be practicing medicine."

"Did you visit Odan or a patient?"

"I just told you--"

"When you came to my quarters, was Odan the only thing on your mind, or were you obsessing about our condition? Did you want to spend time with a friend or check on a patient?"

She couldn't remember. Last night she'd claimed it was a visit from a concerned caregiver, but now she doubted that interpretation. Worse, she couldn't tell him that, thanks to the sudden bottleneck of her thoughts, and ended up looking at him with probably the stupidest expression she'd ever had.

"Come on. We're going to the counselor's office."

"No," she blurted. "Not Deanna."

"You have a choice. Here, or her office. But you _will_ see the counselor!" He punctuated it with a stab of a finger. "I'm still your commanding officer. We're going to sort this out and then, if necessary, you're going to find someone who'll give you legal advice. I may be a little upset about this, but I'm not going to let that get in the way of doing my duty by my fellow officers."

Ah. Coals on the fire. Revenge by doing his duty by her when she'd failed to do hers by him. _It was a mistake, damn it! The stupidest mistake I've ever made and it'll cost me my career, and that isn't enough for you, is it?_  
  
"Fine," she said calmly, striding past him to the door.

********************

  
Damn them all.

Deanna's demeanor heaped more coals on her stinging conscience than Will's professional approach. She'd seen Deanna so rarely in her professional mode, and now she saw it in spades--the impenetrable pleasantly-blank expression, the glassiness of black-on-black eyes that usually told the counselor's emotional state too easily.

Then to make matters worse, Jean-Luc came in as Deanna tried to get her to talk about it, looking like he knew exactly what was going on and just as emotionless as Deanna.

No, there was that glint in his eyes. That tightness around the mouth. He was angry. Worst of all, he sat down right next to Beverly. Will at least had the decency to sit on the small sofa behind them, out of her line of vision.

You could have all the privacy you wanted, Beverly reflected, if you simply went about your business and did your job. But try to bow out gracefully without making trouble and everyone butted in.

"I don't see why I have to be put through this," she exclaimed. "I'm not pretending it was right, or in any way justified by willing participation on anyone's part. I just want to get all the formalities over with as quickly as possible and get out of the way."

"Then tell me what happened," Deanna said without a ripple in her calm.

Beverly's throat locked up. She couldn't look at the captain, sitting on her left quiet as the furniture but there nonetheless, half-filling the room with his presence that could never be ignored. She couldn't look at anyone. Too many people sat in this room, her friends and co-workers, her commanding officers, her subordinate, and the man whose body she had taken advantage of --

"Beverly. Beverly."

She opened her eyes--amazing, she'd actually retreated behind her eyelids without realizing it. Her hands, resting on the arms of the chair, were shaking. It took a moment to comprehend that Jean-Luc had been the one calling her name.

"Too many," she whispered. "Too many of you."

"You will be asked to repeat yourself before a board of inquiry," Deanna pointed out. "Unless the circumstances are such that the captain can log this incident as something other than a breach of medical ethics and endangering the health of an officer. We won't know that unless you can explain what happened."

"It wasn't something other than, it was what I said--why are you making this difficult?" she shouted, springing forward and gripping the leading edge of Deanna's desk. "This isn't something that can be explained away to nothing. I did something wrong, whether Will had any say in it or not!"

Deanna's eyebrow rose. "Commander Riker told me only that something had happened that may warrant investigation, and that he believed the captain and I should be present. He said that it had something to do with your treatment of him while he was carrying the Odan symbiont, and that he thought you were overreacting. I would like you to sit down and discuss this with us calmly, Doctor."

"I don't believe you," Beverly snapped. "He told you a hell of a lot more than that!"

"Sit down, Dr. Crusher," Jean-Luc exclaimed. At that, she fell back into her chair and crossed her arms.

"You'll have my resignation by this afternoon, don't worry. I don't intend to cause any more trouble aboard your ship."

The office fell silent. It occurred to her after a bit that Will hadn't dragged her to the captain's ready room, but here. As she thought about it she felt more than a little sheepish.

Will, when he finally gave up on waiting, didn't make it any easier. "This is not on the record. We're just here to talk about it, see if you're really due for an investigation or if this was just an ethical matter for you to come to terms with on your own. No one's going to make you wear a hair shirt, Doctor."

"Is _that _all?" she said faintly.

"I'm trying not to let my personal opinion get in the way, but if it's a spectacle you want, hell, I'll sell tickets and invite family."

She twisted in her chair to glare at him. "For someone who's only doing his duty, you're being a complete ass--Commander!"

"Both of you, stop it!" the captain shouted. In the confines of Deanna's smaller-than-everyone-else's office, his shout sounded louder than it was. He hesitated, regaining his composure, and went on in a more normal tone. "You're both being childish--I've never heard you use such an ugly tone of voice with a fellow officer, Will, and I don't want to hear it again under any circumstance. And you, Doctor, are beginning to sound hysterical, which is definitely not a side of you I've ever seen and hope I never see again. I want to know why we're here and I don't care which one of you tells me--I have a Klingon ambassador coming aboard and there are preparations to be made."

Will came up off the sofa and loomed over them, stalking back and forth in the space behind the chairs. "Odan was part of me for the better part of two days. I was there, awake, but not quite there--I knew Odan had to be in control for the negotiations so I let him be, and when I was resting, it was very odd. Surreal. After about ten, fifteen hours or so, I started having trouble remembering where he began and I ended, and there were all these strange thoughts drifting through my head, and when it happened I thought it was more of the same. A fantasy, a dream, a memory, something. . . . I knew he'd been seeing Beverly before the symbiont was implanted in me. I thought it was just him, imagining, but it wasn't."

"Stop," Deanna said firmly. "I want Beverly to tell me what happened."

If only Deanna had used rank. Not their names, that counselor's-intimacy thing that came so natural to her. Damn her.

"I don't think I have to," Beverly said, her voice trembling almost as violently as her hands, her eyes burning. "He kept telling me. . . that staying apart was best. I agreed. We stayed apart. He wanted me to remove him from the commander's body if Will's condition degraded, because he didn't want to be responsible for Will's death. He would never have hurt anyone or taken advantage, so when. . . when it happened, I thought--I didn't understand that Will didn't know. Odan kept insisting it was him, that he loved me and it didn't matter what host he had, and I didn't think. . . . I didn't think. It was a mistake. I should have stopped it. I should have recognized that Will might not have any control or be able to voice--" She couldn't continue.

"Was he in any danger? Was it something that might have endangered his health?" Deanna asked. Now her eyes were harder than before--or was that a matter of perception?

"His metabolism was being forced into overdrive by the medication, his body rejecting the symbiont in spite of the drugs. . . . He wasn't in danger. Only if infection set in, and it wouldn't, we would have caught it before it became dangerous. Odan did insist that if it came to one or the other, he wanted Will to live. The only danger was to the symbiont and there wasn't anything more we could do about that until the new host arrived. I had everything under control, as much as it could have been controlled."

Deanna glanced past her at Will then down at her desk. "You gave in to Odan's advances without ascertaining first whether Will was a willing participant. You knew it didn't endanger the lives of either of them, at least no more than they were already endangered--in other words, it would have no significant impact on their well being."

"Yes." The word flew off her lips like a soap bubble, barely there.

"Were you aware, Commander Riker, of what was going on?" Jean-Luc might still be angry, but his matter-of-fact tone didn't reveal it; he'd gotten enough information now to feel that he could confront the situation.

"I told you it was like a dream to me." Will sounded like Wesley at ten, sullen and not wanting to do something.

"Do you want to press charges, Commander?" the captain said. "Because unless you do, it sounds like a violation of medical ethics, and nothing that could be prosecuted as malpractice. If the medical records bear out this accounting of the events."

"I won't press charges." Again, sullen, but resolute, Will Riker pressed on. "I classify it as a misunderstanding. Her reaction is enough to prove that. I have always considered Dr. Crusher a good friend and an excellent doctor, and though this incident is unfortunate and misguided, I don't believe she would ever fall into the same trap--not that the circumstances are likely to be repeated."

"Agreed. Counselor, I want you to examine the medical records for Odan and Mr. Riker. Dr. Selar can act as an impartial consultant; I've no doubt she can keep this as confidential as I expect the three of you to do. When you've completed your assessment, let me know and we'll discuss the matter further with Dr. Crusher. Is this acceptable to all?"

"Yes, sir," Deanna and Will said in unison. Beverly nodded, staring at her feet.

"Good. And now, I have a quite different investigation to prepare for. I expect to see you all in the briefing later this morning." Jean-Luc stood, edged around his chair, and left. Will followed him.

When Beverly started to get up, however, Deanna cleared her throat. "A moment, Doctor."

"I have things to do."

"Of course. You also have a lot of pent-up rage. I have an opening this afternoon at fourteen hundred."

"Fine."

"Just to let you know, I'm going to have Commander Riker come in to talk to me. Not at the same time, of course. Unless you would prefer it?"

"I don't, thanks."

"It will probably become necessary, at some point." Hands folded on the desk, Deanna leaned forward and looked up at her. "You have to work with him. He's also your friend."

"We'll talk about it. Okay?"

********************

  
_Stardate 44932_

Sickbay was quiet this late into beta shift.

She wished she could sleep. Her eyelids kept shutting without permission; the sandman had dumped a few pounds in each side. Her head felt like it might explode. The words on the screen blurred together.

In the stillness of her cold office, it came back to her in bits and pieces.  
_  
&gt;&gt;&gt; how long has it been, Doctor Beverly, since you allowed yourself the freedom to feel love? &lt;&lt;&lt;_

She reached for the hypo. Empty. She'd already exceeded recommended dosage. Tempting to get another one anyway. She decided not to, that the throbbing pain in her skull was what she deserved.  
_  
&gt;&gt;&gt; you have the softest skin &lt;&lt;&lt;_

The empty hypo clattered across the desk. Hands at the back of her neck, she closed her eyes and groaned.

_&gt;&gt;&gt; Beverly, my love &lt;&lt;&lt;_

Just thinking about his voice had her aroused. Thinking about his hands bringing out moans and sliding along skin and her mouth on his

_&gt;&gt;&gt; skin, you taste like mocha, like chocolate in coffee with cream &lt;&lt;&lt;_

and he asked her what chocolate was. She replicated chocolate and whipped cream and he found that it tasted bitter to him

_&gt;&gt;&gt; taste like this to you? my dear, I am sorry &lt;&lt;&lt;_

and she laughed and explained that it most likely was a difference of perception, and he told her about a Trill dessert that reminded him of her

_&gt;&gt;&gt; because it is beautiful, and within it is layers of sweet around a center of surprising flavor, strong and sometimes tart, other times melting on your tongue, and one never knows until one tastes &lt;&lt;&lt;_

Sickbay needed a ticking clock. A window, with trees moving in the wind outside. Something.

She remembered the stillness too well. After Jack died, there were nights that lasted forever, through which she suffered in silence and listened to the noises of the small house they'd rented in San Francisco while she worked at a local medical center. She would wrap herself in the covers like a mummy and listen to Wesley snoring and tossing in his sleep down the hall, leaving doors open on purpose so she could hear that there was someone else in the house with her.

In space, the stillness would catch you, no matter what you did. She heard it even when she asked the computer for music. The only thing that could drive it away was the presence of people with no clue about what had happened, no knowledge of the rash violation of ethics she had committed. People who couldn't imagine her committing it.

Jean-Luc hadn't spoken to her in a week. In the line of duty, certainly--while examining Geordi after his unfortunate and inadvertent participation in the Romulans' plot to kill the Klingons, she and he had spoken extensively about their engineer and then about the situation itself, as if nothing had happened with Odan, nothing at all. And then the awkward pause, and then he turned and left without another word. The captain could do that. There had been no breakfasts in his quarters; she hadn't gone, and he hadn't asked why. No light conversation in passing. No smiles, not his tiny formal one, not the warmer one when their eyes happened to meet, nothing.

She didn't want to see Deanna. After warring with her in "counseling" twice, seeing her off duty was the last thing on her mind. Deanna was her subordinate, technically, but in fact Beverly considered her more of an equal, and she had the good fortune to also have intimate knowledge of the chief medical officer's indiscretion. Then there was that rumor that the counselor and Will were more than just friends. Beverly had been tempted to throw that in her face--counselors couldn't ethically treat friends--but Deanna would deny that there was anything other than friendship, that rumors were not proof, that she would never do such a thing. Just like Beverly wouldn't.

Beverly didn't want to see anyone, not a nurse or doctor, not a friend. No one. Give her a few wounded to take care of, she'd be fine. Otherwise leave her alone.

If only there were some way to simulate someone in the next room. No, not just anyone, someone who loved her but didn't know or care what she'd done. Wesley couldn't do it for her this time. He was off at the Academy being his father's son.

Strangely enough, she wished most of all that Jack could be there. He would understand. He would know how to be there for her without being intrusive, or looking at her in a questioning or judgmental way that made her think her sin glowed on her forehead like an incurable blemish.

The desk felt cold against her forehead. One of the padds pressed against a temple but after a while, it was like it ought to be there. Part of her misshapen life. Her arms felt dead. She imagined them as old wood, cold and thin, bent around her head as if to protect it. The back of her neck felt cold. Her hair had fallen to either side, leaving it exposed, and she imagined the burn marks from lover's kisses showed there like scar tissue.

She woke to the sounds of alpha shift staff coming into sickbay, and to indentations in her forehead, and waited until she could no longer see them in the poor reflection in her turned-off monitor before going out to fake cheerful greetings and early risings.

If anyone tasted her now, she thought, they would make a face and turn away. The unexpected center had no layers of sweetness to cushion the blow, and she knew that her center had become a dry, bitter, unappetizing kernel of hatred.

***************

  
_Stardate 44934_

Ten Forward seemed busier than she remembered. Of course, Beverly hadn't been there in almost a month. The last time had been after Odan left--Kareel, damn it, Kareel, the little woman with Odan's turn of phrase--and after the confrontation with Will. Beverly had laughed too hard and too much at too little, then spent the rest of the brief visit to the public eye knowing that people saw through her forced cheer and pitied her.

For all the wrong reasons. Odan was gone, they had known he was her lover for a while; she hadn't made a secret of it. But they didn't know what she'd done to Will. No one marked it as her attempt to begin the long process of healing the rift between herself and the first officer. He'd played his trombone with the jazz band but completely ignored her, even when she'd sidled over to stand near him as if waiting for him to finish laughing with a pretty lieutenant.

This evening, no one looked at her. No Will around. A lot of folks from the lower decks. She heard Miles O'Brien's laugh, and --

Oh, lord, Data. Holding hands with an ensign. They sat with the O'Briens and the woman spoke loudly. Beverly could almost make out what she was saying. From her tone, bragging. And leaning on Data's arm, smiling at him, fawning --

"Beverly," Guinan exclaimed, making her jump. "I haven't seen you in for a while. How are you?"

"F-fine." She managed a quick, unconvincing smile. "You startled me."

Guinan's easy smile felt so good, so reassuring, so homey. "Sorry. I see you've noticed the latest couple--what do you think?"

Beverly fought the urge to run across and rip the woman away from Data and lecture her on all the reasons androids weren't good dates, or at least shake her thoroughly. "I'm a little surprised," she said, sounding amused. "But I hope they're happy together."

Guinan's smile turned to pursed lips. "Sometimes being happy together isn't the goal. I've noticed humans tend to have difficulty understanding their own goals, at least when it comes to relationships. They say they want one thing and end up with something completely different."

"Sometimes. Other times, the person they're with turns into a different person without warning."

"Or, they were always the same person but chose to briefly become someone else for the sake of the relationship?"

The ensign and the O'Brien's laughed loudly together, Data's head jerking as he looked from one face to the next. Beverly swallowed. "That can happen."

"I'll get you something to drink. Tea?"

Beverly shook herself out of it. "Something stronger, I think."

She picked a table and kept her back to the two couples. Their laughter drifted across to her once in a while. When she finished the first slowly-sipped drink at long last, she glanced up to look for Guinan and found Will standing at her table.

"Hi."

She tried a smile, hating how her lips twisted. "Hi."

"May I?"

_Must repair rift. Must work with him_. "Sure, have a seat. I was about to get another--want one? It's something Guinan suggested, a Krellian nosecleaner."

He snorted as he draped himself over the chair opposite her. "With a name like that, it sounds like just what I need."

"You have a dirty nose?"

Guinan brought them drinks and left again. Will tested the drink and commented upon its better qualities, then fell silent.

"Still mad at me?" she asked.

He chewed the inside of his cheek briefly. "No."

She closed her eyes and savored the moment. When she opened them again, he was watching her with one of his dubious, thinking-too-hard expressions. "So we're friends again."

"We didn't stop being friends." He straightened, rolling a shoulder, moving his arm to drape it over something and letting it fall when he remembered the chairs were narrower than that. "We were both angry for a while, and we're okay now. With that, at least. You've made yourself scarce--we missed you at the last poker game." A pause, for effect. Will had always imagined himself the dramatic type, she'd noticed. "Are you all right?"

_You mean, am I still the bereaved former lover of Odan and/or Kareel who I sent his or her way when I couldn't take the constant identity crisis. You mean, am I an easy mark--because that's what the drink and the kiss were all about, wasn't it? The redhead on the rebound, easy target, no complications, except there was a complication. Were you really ever mad about what happened, or were you just mad that it interrupted the one night stand?_

"I'm fine, Will. You know what they say. Time heals all wounds." She smiled, imagining herself in a play, the starring role, the happy career woman without a care in the world and as one-dimensional as a playing card. Leaning forward, she gestured with a thumb over her shoulder. "Did you see Data? He's got a girlfriend!" she whispered.

Will glanced over her shoulder and grinned. The shoulders relaxed, the concerned stiff stance disintegrated, and Will Riker the friend and co-worker returned. "That's Ensign D'Sora. Geordi mentioned that to me earlier. I guess she broke up with someone else recently."

An explanation for the loud show-off hand-over-the-arm behavior. Full display, full denial. "Oh, so it's a rebound thing. I've always stayed away from those. They're not a productive coping mechanism. A dose of self-imposed exile and some serious self-examination, then a stiff regimen of work and regular exercise in the gym followed by a bit of pampering is better for you, I'd say. I hope she doesn't hurt those feelings he keeps claiming he doesn't have."

Will's mouth twitched. "Interesting methodology. When does the anti-rebound regimen end and normal life resume?"

"That's the best part of all. If you do it just right, you don't even notice when it happens. Suddenly life is glorious and full again, and all the messiness of getting rid of the rebound fling never enters the picture." Beverly flashed a smile at Alyssa Ogawa, who passed their table with a couple of friends. "I'm testing to see if I'm through the rebound period right now. So far, so good."

Will's smile became a shadow of his usual hale-friends-well-met and nothing at all like his hey-there's-a-woman version. "That's great. Maybe we'll start another play soon? I have a few ideas, if you're interested. I'll bet I'd make a great Captain Bligh."

"I had a few thoughts in that direction. Selar and I were discussing doing some of the older Vulcan morality plays. We do have a few Vulcans aboard, and I've tried to get some of the non-human cultures involved with little success. I've also been considering some of the Bolian monologues--they might translate better than the Vulcan plays." She grinned and picked up her drink. "I'll bet you'd make a killer Surak, though, with enough makeup and an ear job."

Will laughed at it. "I'd be more convincing as Surak than as a Bolian, anyway."

He changed the subject--business of the ship, a little gossip, some mission-related details, and she kept up the smile. This, she could deal with. At least he wasn't flirting with her or trying to pour real alcohol down her.

*************

_Stardate 45473_

Beverly placed another glass in front of her friend and sat down again, tucking a leg beneath her. "What did the captain say?"

"Not a lot. Something along the lines of 'nobody's perfect.' I suppose I expected him to put it in my file and lecture me on officer's ethics." Deanna picked up the beverage and smirked. "That's what I felt I deserved, I suppose. I should have pulled out of the mission as soon as I realized I had feelings for Connor, and told the captain exactly why. There were other officers who could have gone with the away team."

So many things she could have said, so many comparisons she could have made, but Beverly nodded and did not smile. Did not allow the idea of pointing a finger and mocking her for falling into the same trap that Beverly had found herself in with Odan. The isolated group of genetically-engineered people had been fascinating on a number of levels, and though she didn't find Connor so alluring as Deanna had, she could understand the attraction.

"I feel so guilty," Deanna continued. "I'm so sorry, Beverly. I know how you felt, now. I told myself I would never--"

"Never what?" Beverly snapped when Deanna wouldn't continue. After all her good intentions of not mentioning it, Deanna had to bring it up. "You didn't--he wasn't your patient."

Deanna met her gaze, suddenly cool. "But neither was Odan, when you met him. And you didn't ask another doctor to step in when he needed medical attention."

"Oh, I see. I'm supposed to avoid my duties as ship's medical officer when I'm emotionally involved with the would-be patient. That leaves out quite a few people on board--guess you'll have to see Selar next time, instead of me. This is a starship--things are a little different here. You know that, Counselor."

Deanna's eyes acquired a hazy, faraway look for a moment. She glanced down, sipped her drink, and winced--she always did on the first sip of any straight liquor. "Point taken. But at the same time, you were more emotionally involved with Odan than with any of your fellow officers. Obviously, you feel that this clouded your judgment--you tried to resign."

"And you're so kind to rub that in, Dee."

A momentary glance exposed the pain naked in Deanna's eyes. "That isn't what I'm trying to do. I'm sorry," she murmured, staring at the floor off to her left.

Beverly waited a few heartbeats. "So am I. I was a very bad patient, wasn't I?"

"Client," Deanna corrected softly. "The captain asked me not so long ago if you were still coming to see me about it."

"And?"

"I said you'd dealt with it well enough and weren't coming in any more. I didn't mention you simply stopped coming after the second unproductive talk we had."

"Thanks."

"You've started having breakfast with him again," Deanna said airily, smiling a little.

"So?"

Deanna shrugged. "He's happier overall when you're talking to each other. I'm glad. He has so few friends he speaks to on a regular basis--it's good for him to have one aboard."

"How are things with Will these days?"

"What do you mean?" Deanna wasn't defensive or covering over anything; she had one of the most expressive faces Beverly ever saw, and any irritation or slyness would have shown. So it was an honest question. Hm.

"Well, how is he? I haven't seen much of him. I know you're close friends. . . ."

She shrugged again. "That's true, but I don't spend a lot of time with him off duty when he's in the middle of some entanglement. It's easier that way." Again, very matter of fact, no strong emotion--somehow Deanna had found a very comfortable, casual place with Will, from which she could watch her former lover with other women, and that bothered Beverly in some indefinable way.

"Let's go down to Ten-Forward and get Guinan to come up with something we've never had before," she suggested.

"Are you all right? Did you want to talk about things in more depth?" Deanna probably sensed the impulse to seek distraction.

"Nope. Did you?"

Again, the counselor stared into Beverly's eyes, but in the end she smiled and went along with it. She wouldn't push. They were friends, in some ways very close, but there were still things neither wanted to delve into with any depth.

On the way to Ten Forward, Beverly thought about long ago at the Academy, and the instructors who informed cadets of the trials and challenges space exploration visited upon the Starfleet officer. Over two semesters of classes intended to prepare them to handle such things, Beverly and her peers had rolled their eyes and taken notes dutifully. Beverly tried to remember what the instructors had said about friendships and lovers, and discovered that years of experience had buried it beyond recovery.

Coming back to her quarters after several hours of laughing with Deanna, she requested the text they'd read for that class. It had been superceded numerous times by revisions. The short chapter on personal relationships only quoted regulation and was padded by anecdotal examples of the intricacies of balancing a working relationship with a more intimate personal one. Romance with fellow officers, due to the enforced proximity of serving on the same ship for (potentially) years at a time, was discouraged. So many things could go wrong. Post-relationship, one might find oneself facing the ex on a daily basis, and working relationships had been destroyed by such tension before.

She went to bed and thought about this, and rolled her eyes. None of the people she worked with were so immature; certainly if she had wanted to, if one of her male coworkers were interested, if anything more intimate occurred, they would be able to manage without dire consequence if it ended. Wouldn't they?

******************

  
_Stardate 45592.2_

Beverly sighed as she strolled into Ten Forward, her refuge from sickbay and from her empty quarters. She'd hoped to find a table to herself, but the place was busier than usual. At the last instant, as she started to turn to go, a hand shot up--Will Riker waved her over to the table at the far end of the room, gesturing at the empty chair in front of him.

"You look as tired as I am," she said, sliding into the chair.

"I spent the last hour with Worf." Will's smile was accompanied by a wince. He, like most of the senior officers, had been concerned about the Klingon since the unfortunate accident in the cargo bay. "He's doing well, but it's still tough to see him like that."

One of Guinan's helpers swung by to take her order. Beverly asked for soup and bread. When the young woman went off to the bar, Beverly glanced at Will's plate. "You're not hungry?"

"I was." He paused, then said, "How are you, Beverly?"

"All right." That felt like a polite lie. His dubious expression prompted more than politeness. "I don't like how close we came to losing him. I can't stop thinking about it."

She hadn't voiced this with anyone other than Jean-Luc, that morning at breakfast; he'd listened and empathized, but she hadn't felt any relief. Perhaps it had been Jean-Luc's mention of Riker's dilemma that made her think Will might understand. Worf had asked him to assist in the Klingon's suicide. Culture clash had been inevitable at some point; it amazed her that it had taken this long to happen. Klingons were that different, and Worf persisted in taking tradition more seriously than Klingons who had been raised to it.

Will's reaction to her attempt at conversation, a sigh and a lapse into deep, silent thought, wasn't an opening to talk. Her soup came, and she nibbled bread while staring into the broth.

"What would you have done, in my place?" Will asked. He put down his fork, with which he had been idly prodding the remnants of his mostly-uneaten noodle dish. Udon, she remembered. A Japanese soup.

"You mean, how do I feel about assisted suicide?"

"Not exactly. He didn't want to live that way, and I can't say that I wouldn't feel the same way--just that I would consider depression and thoughts of suicide as part of the process of adjusting to the disability. For Worf there would be no way to go home to Kronos and live out the rest of his days. He'd have to go back to Earth, where he's never been completely at home." Will sighed again and rested his chin in his hand, balancing his elbow on the edge of the table.

It reminded Beverly that she had no one any more. Wesley was well and truly out of the nest, at the Academy and doing well according to his sporadic messages. There were cousins somewhere, she knew--people she'd never met who were distantly related to her through her parents' aunts or uncles, who she had no interest in knowing--but there was no home other than Caldos and Nana.

"Doctor?"

She flinched. He'd resorted to her title to wake her from her reverie, and she wondered if he had tried her name and failed to get through. Feeling warmth in her cheeks, she smiled, shaking her head. "Sorry. I was thinking about…"

"Something sad," Will filled in when she didn't continue.

"It wasn't just that we almost lost him. I think about Alexander, losing his mother, and then losing his father." And about Wesley, losing his father, and her young self, after her parents died. About the ways loss had shaped her life. "How willing Worf was to die and leave his son to be raised by others. If he was so concerned about cultural issues, why would he ask Deanna to raise his son?"

From the wide-eyed stare, Will hadn't known about that. "Deanna?" he blurted, as if it were unthinkable at the outset. As if Deanna weren't the soft, maternal, compassionate woman Worf had likely never known, and thus capable of continuing to fill Alexander's obvious need for nurturing.

"He wasn't even willing to try any of the standard treatments. It was all or nothing. I would have been tempted, in his situation, to risk the experimental treatment Dr. Russell was so eager to force on him, but--" She noticed Will's distant look. "She was unethical."

It brought his blue eyes back into focus. "Russell? I thought Worf agreed to the procedure."

What was it that no one seemed to understand this? Her fellow officers weren't doctors, but they weren't uninformed, either. "She was using experimental procedures and medications on sentient beings, without the proper testing and clinical trials to be certain that they're safe. There's a difference between a procedure you know is risky and one that you have no idea what results to expect. Worf was extremely lucky that he survived, because if not for his Klingon physiology, he would be dead. The procedure replaced his spinal column but it also sent him into cardiac arrest. Anyone else would be dead."

She realized as she finished that she'd raised her voice, and that it had taken on a bitter edge. Will chewed his lower lip briefly. "You're really angry about this."

"Of course I am! She had no respect for him as a fellow being--he was a test subject to her, one she could write off if something went wrong. She was more upset that her experiment failed than she was about losing a patient."

He actually took a bite of his cold dinner. She'd made him uncomfortable. Beverly sipped cold soup from her spoon and nibbled bread.

"You take your work seriously, but you don't lose sight of the person you're trying to heal. That's reassuring."

Beverly looked up from her bowl. Will smiled at her and, to her surprise, reached across the table to touch her left hand where it lay on the table. "Will?"

He withdrew his hand. "I have a holodeck reservation in a few minutes. I was going to fish, or go rockclimbing, but I'd consider alternate scenarios if you want to come along. It sounds like you need a break from this topic."

She considered this and knew what was possible. Will Riker didn't mind having affairs with women while aboard the ship, and she'd seen him wander off with a number of them over the years. It always made her wonder, deep in the privacy of her thoughts, what happened when he and some lieutenant vanished into some secret spot, perhaps the cargo bays or the far reaches of deck twenty-seven. Did he just love to talk? She doubted it. Of course, this could be a simple matter of a senior officer being friendly and sympathetic to another, and he might not intend anything more--but something about that possibility saddened her.

"Thanks, Will. Have you ever been to Marseilles?"

He hadn't. They spent the remainder of the evening walking and talking, and for the first time in years, she found herself talking about her life before the_ Enterprise_, her school years, her time at the Academy, and Wesley as a baby, and he listened politely. She pried out of him the years he spent alone before the Academy-- she hadn't known he had raised himself, hadn't realized that Kyle Riker had left his son when he was thirteen and gone away to work, and the mother in her rose up in anger. Not that she let it show.  

They were strolling along a street in front of a basilica when he casually asked what Jack was like, and she realized she had told her story in such a way that she'd hardly mentioned her husband--a first for her. She used both hands to sweep her hair back from her face and looked up at the bell tower of the basilica.

"He was. . . like you, actually, in many ways. At least as far as Starfleet was concerned. He always exuded such confidence and strength, but he could be such a boy about things--enthusiastic and motivated, adventurous, all the things that make a young officer run to greet promotion and eventually become an admiral with a grudge against Command for forcing him to take the bars and leave the stars."

Will smirked, though it was tempered by surprise and. . . something else she couldn't name. "Only he took that other option open to Starfleet officers."

"Death?" Her enemy.

"Heroic sacrifice."

Beverly stopped and studied the basilica's garden, just over the wrought-iron fence. Statues of saints rose from the shrubbery on either side of a cobbled path. "I spent most of my marriage missing him," she said distantly, trying to remember Jack's face. "I poured myself into my career and spent my nights missing his laughter, and. . . other things. And when he died I missed him more; it was a sharper sort of loss, but I'd missed him already for so long that I didn't seem able to stop. He was too abstract to me. I think if I had had him with me more, I might have been able to find a clear end to mourning."

Will stood stiffly at her side, close but not touching. Uncertain of how to handle this, she guessed.

"I wish. . . ." She met his eyes and waited for the butterflies in her stomach to settle. Dilated pupils, the subtle inclination of his body toward her--Will was excited, and so was she, and this could be what she thought it might. It could be something good, but temporary. No obligation, no commitment, and no danger to her relationship with him.

"Do you still miss him?"

She had to think for a few seconds to remember that she'd been talking about Jack. "Once in a while, I think about him. But I don't miss him so intensely."

"Do you miss Odan?" Will asked softly.

It was almost too much--but she didn't have it in her to be angry about it. "No."

He touched her face. The butterflies died, and her back tensed; she turned away. "I should go check on Worf once more before--"

It was ludicrous--there was no need to check, and Will likely knew it. But he stood there with a hand on the fence, or at least he did so until she reached the arch and glanced back at him, and he didn't seem angry, only a little chagrined. She exhaled as she left the holodeck and hurried for the lift.

*****************

_Stardate 45616.2_

Deanna was already in the room when Beverly got there, stretching and bending in front of the mirror. "Everything all right?"

"Yes, I was held up by a chatty patient." Beverly joined her in a forward bend, letting her back decompress and her head hang. "You've been busy today. I haven't seen you since yesterday."

"I have chatty patients as well. Though sometimes the less chatty ones are more time consuming."

They raised their arms straight over their heads and rolled their shoulders. Beverly glanced at her friend. "Are you all right?"

Deanna dropped all pretense of intent to exercise. "I will be."

"But?" Beverly crossed her arms.

"Have you ever known someone who couldn't stop indulging in risky behavior?"

"You're worried about Will, aren't you?" The most recent love affair of Riker's had come to a tragic end, with the hermaphroditic Soren's return to orthodox J'naii ways.

Deanna's frown didn't affect her mouth so much as it did the bridge of her nose and the slant of her groomed black brows. "He's mourning the loss of Soren. Any one of us could see what was going to happen, but in he went, head over heels. As if he could really rescue her and keep her--she would never be happy anywhere but her home."

"Because she was too different, and not a she?"

"It only bothers me because he never learns from this sort of thing. He's not going to find anything long-term with someone like Soren."

"Or that Odell woman, or any of the others he's looked at for more than two minutes." Beverly shook her head. "I don’t know. Maybe it's an unconscious way of preventing something long-term from coming about. Maybe he's really interested in someone more available but finds that too frightening to contemplate, for whatever reason."

Deanna blinked at her. "I thought I was supposed to be the psychologist."

"Or maybe he's just too fickle? Dee, what are you really bothered about?"

"He's a good friend. I don't like seeing--or sensing--my good friends in pain, especially unnecessary pain." Here, she stared at Beverly so intensely that it was clear she meant this to be a specific message for her, though it was unclear what that was.

"It's necessary to Will. Does it really matter why? He was in love, just like we all are from time to time. Haven't you ever lost your head because you were in love?" Rhetorical questions padded the blow of confrontation, she'd found. Both of them knew the answer well enough.

But rhetoric hadn't been enough. Pivoting on a heel, Deanna marched for the door.

"Dee--wait! I'm sorry!"

Too late. The door snapped shut, and Dee was gone. Should have known better. Sighing, Beverly gave up on the gym and went to her quarters to change.

The following morning, on her way to sickbay, she saw Deanna walking with Worf and Alexander in the direction of school. None of them noticed her. Beverly lingered near a commpanel, watching them disappear around the bend of the corridor, and noted the smiles and fond teasing. Deanna had been in sickbay a lot while Worf had been recovering from that accident; not every visit had been with Alexander.

"Or maybe you're conflicted about something you feel, and projecting?" Beverly muttered. She sighed. Psychologist, analyze thyself.

******************

_Stardate 45704.8_

"Beverly?"

She blinked, turned from staring at nothing, and found Jean-Luc watching her, puzzlement and concern wrinkling his brow. She shook her head and raised her teacup.

"He'll be fine," he said, gentle and reassuring. He could be that way--his son had not been involved in covering up the untimely death of another Starfleet cadet.

"It isn't that. I can't stop feeling--I know it isn't my fault. But he's my son, I raised him by myself, and that he could conspire to lie and hide the truth and--"

"He made the correct choice, in the end. Wesley is a good man."

"I know that. But--" She had been about to say that one cannot stop feeling an emotion, no matter how true the rationalization or how plainly the emotion was inappropriate, but this was Jean-Luc Picard, and sometimes she wondered if he could turn off that part of him. "But I'm a mother," she continued softly, then regretted it. That sounded as though she believed this to be an excuse for weakness. "As manly as he may be, as easy as it was for him to avoid talking to me about it, I'm still very emotionally attached to my son."

Somehow, he sat there on his couch, composed and radiating sympathy without putting down the saucer in his left hand or the cup in his right, while tears she couldn't stop ran down her cheeks and her voice wavered and wobbled. And not for the first time she spent a moment hating that composure. That anyone could be so self-possessed and not be Vulcan annoyed her. Or, maybe she was already in such an emotional state that she reacted to everything with such drama, she chided herself. He was himself; nothing about him had changed.

"Stop that," she exclaimed. She refrained from a malicious smile when his eyes widened and worry crept into his expression. "You were upset, too."

"I was disappointed." His gaze dropped, as if he were searching for something to say in his tea. "But he's certainly not the first to make such a mistake. He'll recover from it, and be all the stronger for it, I'd say."

"You just can't do it, can you? As if allowing yourself to feel something for once would be so terrible--" She leaned forward, mindful to put her cup and saucer on the table without rattling or spilling, and rose swiftly. "I need to get going--I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bev--"

The door to his quarters closed behind her. She waited in the corridor, but he didn't come out. Of course not. She considered going back in, but she'd already impulsively reacted to her irritation once; better to wait.

He showed up at her door nearly four hours later, after she'd retreated to her office and immersed herself in catching up on medical journal articles she'd meant to find time to read. Beverly watched him come in, meander to the chair on the other side of her desk, and seat himself. Finally, he met her eyes, sheepish but determined.

"I was supposed to listen, wasn't I?"

She laughed at him. Well, he laughed, too, so perhaps they were both laughing at him. Jean-Luc shook his head, even slumped a little.

"Sometimes seeing the positive side of things doesn't help, Jean-Luc. You telling me everything will be fine is redundant. I already know Wes is a man, and independent of me. He needed your help with the situation, and he got it, so I'm grateful. But you took something from me when you did it."

He raised an eyebrow. "I did?"

"I'll never be able to parent him again. He's moved out of childhood forever. And you killed any lingering doubt I may have had on that by proving it." She sighed, her thoughts on the last time she'd seen Wesley--he'd returned her hug at last, lost the stiffness of guilt and fear, but it wasn't the same even then. Her boy had been replaced by a man who resembled him.

"I'm sorry," Jean-Luc said. He sounded genuinely chagrined. Startled, she laughed again.

"Oh, don't. It's a progression, you know. It starts when you have the baby--you lose your child by seconds and minutes and hours, gradually, each developmental milestone bringing joy but sometimes also sadness that you won't have the baby any more, or the toddler, or the happy little five-year-old who wanted to help you with dinner, or the ten-year-old obsessed with ships and guns, and eventually you look at him and see him eye to eye, and all of it is gone. . . ." She noticed his expression and stopped. He wasn't understanding, and wouldn't. Children were foreign things he only understood in the abstract. She'd chosen the wrong listener for this.

"So really, you're having difficulty because you miss the child you had," he summarized, proving her correct.

"Thank you, Jean-Luc. I would have explained it to you at breakfast tomorrow, you know."

He nodded, and obviously felt relieved. "But I'd rather apologize now and. . . I wasn't certain how angry you were."

"Not really angry at all."

A smile, subtle and yet so telling, touched his lips. "Breakfast, then?"

"Of course."

After he was gone, the journals held no interest. She stretched, shoved the padds aside, and contemplated her day; there were things to do in sickbay, a physical, several followup appointments, and the usual organizational and maintenance tasks associated with staffing and equipment.

But she felt restless and disinterested. Rising, she left her office, then sickbay, as if she had a set purpose in doing so. She found herself in the next section, in front of the counselor's office, and decided that perhaps she had found the purpose.

The door opened and Deanna looked up from her padd, unsurprised. It wasn't often that anyone could surprise her with a sudden appearance. She put her work aside and waited for Beverly to sit down.

"My little boy is gone," Beverly said, and all the emotions rushed free of her restraint. Tears blurred her vision and when she raised a hand to brush her eyes, it trembled.

Deanna stood and came around her desk, holding out her arms. She held Beverly and made sympathetic sounds as long as the tears came, and stood back to get tissue when they slowed.

"Do you need to talk about it?"

Beverly sighed and blew her nose. "I needed to cry about it."

"You haven't done that already?" Deanna's serious dark eyes tempered the smile, keeping her finely balanced between humor and gentle confrontation.

"I suppose I also needed a sympathetic shoulder. Thank you."

Deanna nodded, again giving her the impression that the counselor had plenty she could have said, but refrained. "It's a difficult transition to make. Everyone handles it differently. I was a little surprised that you hadn't already been through this when Wes left for the Academy."

"It's so final--when he left, he was still a boy. But the hearings, the accident, the--the lies--"

"It wasn't the simple lies about getting into the candy, or claiming to have cleaned his teeth but not doing it," Deanna continued when she couldn't manage. "It wasn't sneaking out to examine the warp core on gamma shift because he wanted to invent a better tractor beam. It was the crime of a young man, lying under oath, and it's never going to be simple again."

"Yes." Beverly pressed a folded tissue to her eyes.

"And you miss the boy more, now that you know there's no way he's coming home to you."

"I'm never going to be a mother again, Deanna," she cried. "And I don't want to cry like this--I don't want to go through this. I should be able to--to--"

"To be a professional? Beverly. You feel what you feel. Let yourself feel it." Deanna's arms went around her again. "The only way to deal with loss is to go through it. Avoiding the grief will only prolong it."

She knew this, somewhere in her rational mind. She was no stranger to grief. So she went through it.

The following morning, when she went to breakfast with Jean-Luc, he smiled and began to talk about their next mission. This time, she felt only gratitude that he didn't want to discuss Wes again.

*******************

_Stardate 46378.1_

"You're doing much better this week," Beverly said as she turned to look at the captain. She'd been about to say something specific about the healing she saw, but noticed that he wasn't looking at her. Something about his stiff back and refusal to meet her eyes alerted her that whatever had led him to suspend their breakfast meetings might be keeping him from coming to sickbay; she'd thought it odd that, given the damage to his connective tissue and nerves, he'd never visited between scheduled exams complaining of pain.

"Thank you, Doctor," he said when she didn't continue. She grabbed his arm before he could slide off the biobed. It got him to look at her, at least. He looked away just as quickly, however, and waited for her to release him.

"The treatment of your physical injuries is progressing well. Rest and reduced activity is still the prescription. And if you experience any pain you should come to sickbay, as difficult as that may be. It's only been three weeks since the Cardassians returned you."

He nodded, once. Beverly glanced up--the room was clear. Ogawa had gone, probably logging the scans in the CMO's office to give the captain some privacy. "Jean-Luc, look at me."

He raised his head and did so. The dark circles under his eyes were more apparent then.

"You aren't sleeping?"

"Not so much, no." He wasn't responding as she'd expected he might. At the first exam, he'd been determined to prove he wasn't affected; now he seemed worn down, lacking any real motivation at all. She'd seen Deanna's brief clinical summaries describing her impression of his progress, but his mood seemed worse than those descriptions would indicate.

"When did you last see the counselor?"

"Yesterday. Beverly, I'm f--"

"No, you are not--I said your physical condition is improving. You look exhausted. Why aren't you sleeping?"

He stared at some point in the air, his jaw set. Anxiety set in somewhere in Beverly's stomach.

"All right. You won't talk to me, you'll talk to Deanna. Now. And if she concurs with my--"

"I told you, I will be fine, Doctor," he exclaimed, with some of the firmness and determination more typical of him.

"No, you told me you are fine, and I doubt that. I'd think by now that the illusion that you are immune to trauma would've been shattered."

She meant the Borg, and of course he understood that, as evidenced by the glare he gave her. "I have an appointment to see the counselor this afternoon."

"Good. How is counseling going for you?"

"F--"

"If you use the word 'fine' again, I'm going to contact Deanna and have her come to sickbay."

Instead of fury, which she expected, he responded by deflating slightly and looking at the floor. "I am making progress."

"All right. I'll come by at breakfast tomorrow to check on you. If you need to talk, Jean-Luc."

He opened his mouth, his lip trembled, and he closed it again. Frowning, he nodded and slid off the biobed. On the way out he tugged his uniform straight.

Ogawa emerged from Beverly's office, shaking her head. "As many times as he's been injured, and he still tries to do it on his own."

"If you've updated his file, I'd like to review it." Beverly passed Alyssa going the other way. "Call me if you need me, otherwise I'd rather not be interrupted."

Which didn't take long at all. Within five minutes of opening the captain's medical records, the annunciator chimed. When the door opened Deanna stood squarely in the frame. She strode in, and while she remained outwardly calm, her anger radiated from her.

"Doctor," she said, her rare formality carrying with it a hard edge, "you will stop interfering with the captain's psychotherapy."

"I'm his doctor and his mental fitness is as much a concern--"

Deanna stepped up to the edge of Beverly's desk. "Then stop pushing him. If I see any cause for concern I will certainly include it in my reports, unless you're the cause of my concern. In which case I am telling you to monitor his physical condition and stop trying to help with his mental state, because it isn't helping him."

"I'm also his friend," Beverly exclaimed, rising and planting her palms on her desk. "He needs friends, too."

Deanna stared her down with hard, angry eyes, and it sank in that this was truly serious--Deanna's anger was about her concern for the captain. She wouldn't do this otherwise. "Must I remind you? Torture tears down a person's identity. Do I really have to tell you that the captain has been through psychological torture as well as physical? While he does need our support, he doesn't need anyone else's expectations interfering with his recovery."

"What are you talking about, exactly? What am I doing? Asking him to see his counselor, telling him to come back to sickbay if he's in pain."

"If that were all you'd done, he wouldn't be--" She stopped herself, possibly because of the volume she'd reached, possibly trying not to break confidentiality. She took a step back and tucked her hands behind her. "Beverly, please trust me that you must let him proceed at his own pace. Let him re-establish contact when he's ready."

"But why would he avoid me? He knows that I'd listen if he needed--" Something about this felt wrong. Deanna pleaded silently with her eyes for her to stop, to trust, to not push this. What the hell was going on with Jean-Luc?

"Why?" she repeated. "Why would he not be able to look at me? Every time he comes to sickbay--does it have something to do with Celtris Three? Do I remind him of it too much?"

Deanna closed her eyes and seemed to be trying to calm herself; she sucked on her lip briefly and sighed. "He'll work through this, Beverly, and at some point, he will need to begin to re-establish friendship ties so he can regain some sense of normalcy. But he's the only one who can determine when that will happen. Do not force it on him. That's all I can tell you at this point. Perhaps he'll talk to you about it some day--I think that would be healing in itself. But now is not the time, and to push him will only impede his progress. Please accept this and be patient. Be his doctor, be encouraging, but please don't pry. That's all I can tell you."

Deanna spun and marched out of the office abruptly.

Now that she was gone, Beverly found herself mulling over everything that happened on Celtris, the moments of panic, the escape down narrow passages with Worf breathing like a bellows behind her all the way, barking for her to turn left, go straight. With every step she'd been certain soldiers would pour out of the side corridors and trap them. She hadn't had a second free to think about the captain until they'd reached the Ferengi ship. She'd realized then that he wasn't behind them, wasn't coming with them, and then she spent the rest of their lengthy journey back to the _Enterprise_ thinking about him, worrying, hoping, and trying in the name of optimism to do away with the sick ache in the pit of her stomach.

She'd made the decision she had known he would want her to make. She and Worf had gotten out. There had been no other way. She understood his decision to hold the enemy while his officers fled, that he would do his best to follow, that he was capable of survival by whatever means necessary. And he had done so, though the damage to his limbs wasn't immediately correctable with regenerators, though his internal organs showed the stress of starvation and repeated trauma, though the device the Cardassians had left in his chest had destroyed tissue and bone that took several days to regenerate.

She'd helped him through the long healing process after the Borg, and Deanna had certainly proved herself then; her reports were clinical, but her face told the truer story. Beverly had been able to track the captain's progress by watching the counselor. Whatever it was Jean-Luc was going through this time, Beverly thought, it had to be dealt with, and she would have to let go and trust Deanna again, as the counselor requested. Still, the tightness in her chest and the knot in her stomach persisted.

Her office door opened again, and Deanna returned, her hands in fists, her eyes moist and glistening. "It isn't your fault, Beverly. You did nothing wrong. You said nothing wrong. This isn't really about you, but it's. . . something connected to you. It will be all right."

"You've been standing out there waiting for me to let go--haven't you?"

"Keep letting go. He'll come back." A tear finally wandered down her cheek. "Now I'm going to go see him. If you want to talk later, I'll be in my quarters."

Beverly sighed, sat down, folded forward, rested her forehead on the backs of her hands, and let Deanna's reassurances play over and over in her mind. The knot loosened, but wouldn't go away. She didn't understand, wanted to understand--but it was his trauma to experience. He hadn't been able to completely understand her transient melancholy over Wesley's absence, her musings over what she might have done differently, but he'd listened sometimes when she had to talk. Now she had to return the favor, only her duty was to wait for him to resume the conversation.

It was, she realized, the same sort of feeling she'd had after Jack died. Her husband had been absent for most of their life "together." Though she'd seen the body and gone to the funeral, it hadn't felt real. It was as though she still toiled on while he did the same elsewhere in the galaxy, and someday they would spend a holiday together, only sometimes she would remember it wasn't possible and the holiday would come and go, then the mourning began anew. "Cyclical mourning," Deanna had said--not a clinical term but it described the way she kept returning to the loss until it finally resolved.

What was she mourning this time? Not the loss of friendship. A loss of connection, maybe. Being pushed away meant temporary distance. The fear and guilt of thinking it might be her fault somehow didn't help.

All right, Crusher. Time to stop this.

Beverly straightened her lab coat as she stood, ran her fingers through her hair, settled her shoulders, and focused. The doctor was in. Out in sickbay, she found Ogawa easing a pregnant crew member down on a biobed. Her face assumed the proper professional smiling expression as she greeted the lieutenant.

Later, when she stopped by Deanna's quarters, she found the counselor wrapped in a fluffy black robe and drinking hot tea. Beverly sat with her and found herself slumping into the sofa just as she did, holding her tea with both hands.

"Black?"

"I got tired of pastels. Matches my mood, at the moment." Deanna let her head fall back and closed her eyes.

"I thought he was handling it better than this."

"He thought so, too. How are you?" Deanna peered through her eyelashes, turning her head slightly toward Beverly.

"Confused, but less anxious. I think--what do you think?"

Deanna smiled and let her head fall back again. "We're professionals until one of our friends is harmed. I spent too much time with him today. On the other hand, I'm mandated by Starfleet to ensure that the command structure of the ship is sane and stable, and telling an admiral that in my professional opinion he'll bounce back from this before I completely understood what was going on has my own career dangling by a thread."

Beverly couldn't help staring. "Your career?"

"Oh, so I'm being dramatic. It's really only in jeopardy if he doesn't bounce back."

"Deanna?"

The counselor put her tea on the end table at her left and covered her eyes with her hands, rubbing in slow circles, pressing fingertips to brows. She dropped her hands into her lap and stared at the ceiling.

"Deanna, what are you saying?"

"Nothing of substance," she said at last. "I'm afraid, Beverly. That's all I'm saying."

"Afraid that he won't recover?"

"That, and also afraid that I won't be able to help him. I won't be able to do as Starfleet expects. And while it's certainly possible that no one will blame me, I would. Staying on the _Enterprise_ wouldn't be in the cards for me. They'd probably give her to Jellico."

"Aaah." Then, as Beverly thought about it, she said, "I'm not sure I understand."

Deanna considered for a few moments before responding. "This is an artificial life, being in space. It's not at all like life back home. We form relationships with people we wouldn't ordinarily have met, make friends, sometimes make families, but when it comes down to it, we're co-workers. We move on to a new posting, we transfer friendships along with our baggage."

"That's not true," Beverly exclaimed.

"How often did you see or speak with the captain, before you came aboard? You were his friend long before you took this posting. And think about your last posting--how many of those people you once worked with speak to you on a regular basis?" Deanna closed her eyes again, frowning. "You call former co-workers friends--and they still are, but you don't talk to them about your life, you don't share any intimate details, they've become professional contacts with positive memories attached, and it's fun to visit and share old times and laugh, but you run out of things to say. And then it's good-bye till next time, good luck, and back to the ship. That's been my pattern, anyway."

"But how could it be otherwise, in Starfleet?" Her description touched a nerve--Beverly found herself on edge, defensive, yet she couldn't find a flaw with what Deanna said. It was true that she communicated at ever-lengthening intervals with old associates and friends. But they had their careers and their lives, and she had hers, with plays to direct and research to participate in, and poker games on the side.

"That's what I'm saying. Any mental health professional on Earth would immediately write 'limited social support' in their notes, for any of us. Because I have my mother, and that's more than the captain has. More than you have. Other than the senior officers on this ship, I have my mother." She opened her eyes and seemed to be looking at the viewports, at the stars. "I can't talk to the other officers about what I'm going through. I have no peers on board with whom I could ethically consult. I can't contact a psychologist at home, because none of them have clearance, and consulting with a Starfleet psychologist would be uncomfortable, due to the complicated rules of confidentiality within Starfleet hierarchy. I have you, as my supervisor, and myself. I feel isolated and without professional support, or social support. My mother would drag me off into a mud bath and try to convince me to forget these feelings. I can't."

Beverly gaped. What could she say? It was all true.

They sat in silence, until Deanna stretched and got up. "I didn't mean to pull you into my melancholy with me, Beverly."

"Is it that you can't separate the professional concern from the personal?"

Deanna's hint of a smile seemed brittle. "Can you?"

The counselor had timing, no doubt about that. The accusation would have wounded her had it come any earlier in the conversation. Beverly stood, her empty cup dangling from her fingers. "Between his lack of energy and changes in personality and your fear, I'm not so sure."

"All we can do is our best." Deanna took the cup from her and headed for the replicator. "Want a refill?"

"No. I should be going. You look as exhausted as I feel."

But even after a leisurely dinner alone and a long session with a boring book, Beverly still tossed and turned half the night. Nevertheless, she rose at her usual time and went through the motions until she reached sickbay and found Nurse Ogawa waiting for her. The captain was sitting on a biobed, in uniform and looking uncomfortable.

"Captain?" She glanced at Ogawa.

"The captain just arrived a few moments ago," the nurse said. "He says he's experiencing pain in the knees."

"And elbows," he added.

"You're scheduled for another treatment today, anyway. Lay back and I'll get an analgesic."

The pain medication relieved the tension in his face, and while he lay beneath the clamshell as the regenerator went through its cycle, applying restorative energy to the damaged cartilage and tendons, she went for a cup of coffee. She returned to his side and watched the readouts on the panel over his head.

"I don't see why this is taking so long," he muttered. "This should have been fixed days ago."

She glanced down at his face. Was he fighting a smile? Was this mischief? She'd already explained that she preferred to allow the joints to heal on their own as much as possible and that regenerating incrementally would facilitate that process and result in stronger tissue. She started to smile, but thought about Deanna's fear, and that must have affected her expression.

"Beverly?"

"I'm sorry I was so pushy yesterday." She looked up at the readouts and carefully kept her voice even and soft.

"I'm sorry I've been so. . . unavailable. I thought you would be at breakfast this morning."

"I forgot, to tell you the truth. I didn't sleep very well." She heard the regenerator chirp twice, signifying the end of the cycle, and turned to unlatch and remove the clamshell.

The captain remained still, watching her.

"Is something else bothering you, Captain?"

"Do you think I'm fit for duty, Doctor?"

"Do you mean do I think you should go off the reduced schedule and go back to a full shift?" He nodded, finally pushing himself back to a sitting position. "Well, so long as it doesn't include away teams or strenuous physical exertion. And so long as the counselor clears you for it."

He grimaced. "Thank you, Doctor Crusher."

"Was that a wince of pain?"

"Not the sort you can medicate. Breakfast tomorrow?"

"I'll have croissants and scones, and a cup of hot tea ready for you." She smiled; he returned it as he smoothed his jacket and turned for the door.

Ogawa waited until he'd gone to comment. "He seems much better today."

"Other than the pain," Beverly added, sipping her coffee. "I think we'll start that inventory today."

****************  
_  
Stardate 43708.8_

Beverly staggered toward her door. Somewhere between his quarters and hers, it'd struck her like a falling meteorite. Jean-Luc had broken their long-standing silence, had actually made a move, had attempted to persuade her to build on the simmering attraction they'd always known about and never addressed.

Seconds after his door closed behind her, the fear of which she'd spoke turned her legs to putty. She'd said "we" should be afraid--obviously she was the one with the fear; whatever he might be feeling remained uncertain, but certainly her anxiety was quite real. The only constants in her life were her friendships, and the longest standing constant was their friendship. Wesley was still working his way through the Academy, far away and out of touch. Life had been changing all around her, moment by moment.

It should not, she thought, take an alien species forcing them to be read each other's thoughts to convince him to speak up. Kes-Prytt shouldn't have to happen, if they were meant to be together. Two adults should be able to discuss such things and come to a mutually-satisfying conclusion.

Beverly leaned on the wall outside her door for a few seconds, steadying herself, then went in her quarters. Standing bemused just inside, she took inventory--not hungry, not thirsty, tired, anxious--and went to her bedroom. In the bottom drawer she found the flat box and opened it on the floor. She set some of the pictures out on the carpet. Jack and Jean-Luc and Beverly, smiling from a table on a patio outside a café in San Francisco; Walker had taken it. Jean-Luc still had his hair. There was one of Wesley in Jack's arms, another of her with a five year old Wes outside the house she'd had at the time. Others of herself in theater productions, in scrubs outside an operating theater with her mentor, Dr. Quaice, and one of her leaning back against Jack, both of them laughing.

She imagined one of herself and Jean-Luc, found it difficult, and sighed. It wouldn't be the first time she'd tried to imagine them together, but it was the first time it seemed impossible.

The annunciator went off. She leaped to her feet, left the pictures scattered on the carpet, and reached the door with her heart in her throat. "Come in!"

When the panels slid apart, Deanna stood in the door. From the look on her face, she knew or at least had an inkling of what was going on. But she waited just outside, arms crossed, saying nothing.

"I said come in," Beverly exclaimed.

Deanna did so, glancing around as if to make sure they were alone. She sat on the edge of the nearest couch cushion, folding her hands on her knees.

"How do you cope?" Beverly blurted. "How can you possibly manage to sense all of the emotion around you, from all these people? How did you handle it when he--when Will--"

Deanna waited, her eyes focused on the low glass table.

"All I could think about when we were wearing those devices was how intrusive it was--his thoughts, his feelings, kept interrupting what I was thinking, and it was the same for him, of course, and sometimes he thought of things he didn't want me to know and--Deanna, we've never talked about what happened after he was tortured by Gul Madred. He never wanted to talk to me about it, any more than he wanted to tell me he was once in love with me."

Deanna's back went a little straighter, and she shifted her weight slightly. Tension in every muscle.

"He thought about being tortured. He thought about the things he didn't want me to know, probably couldn't stop himself--I don't know what to do, Dee. I don't know how to move on from here."

Beverly watched the counselor's shoulders sink, her hands unclench. "I'm not sure I know what you mean by 'move on.'"

"Please stop playing innocent. I've seen you sense emotions from people hundreds of kilometers away. You have a very good idea of what just happened. I don't know how to continue as I've done, knowing that he wants to--that I've just walked away from him."

Deanna seemed to be staring at the bookcase on the opposite wall. "I don't know what to tell you, Beverly. You certainly wouldn't be the only woman who's walked away from a Starfleet officer out of self preservation."

There were too many implications in that to sort out at that moment. Beverly strode around the table and perched on the edge of the couch next to Deanna. "Is that what it was? Self preservation?"

"That would seem to be the compromise. You've developed a comfortable friendship with him, and I would certainly have difficulty contemplating the alteration of such a strong and valued relationship."

"Have you made a similar decision?"

Another of Deanna's brittle smiles was her reward. "Beverly, this isn't about me. This is your decision to make. Nothing I can say would really help you make it. In the end, you have to be comfortable with the decision; you will live out the consequences of it. Just as Lieutenant-Commander Darren must."

Stricken speechless, Beverly stared at the counselor as she rose and headed for the door. Deanna invoking that particular incident didn't seem fair. After Deanna had left, Beverly fumed silently until it occurred to her that Jean-Luc hadn't once thought of Darren down on Kesprytt.

She returned to the bedroom and knelt on the floor in front of the pictures. There were still things that puzzled her--just what was the connection between her and Gul Madred's torture of the captain? She picked up a group shot of the senior officers of the _Enterprise_ and studied the smiling faces, thinking about her friends. Most of them smiled joyfully from the frame, except for Jean-Luc; he stood in the center front, with only the barest hint of a smile.

There had been times that she hadn't understood his decisions or his actions, but he had always been consistently loyal and self-sacrificing, to Starfleet and to his crew, as his principles dictated. It would have been easy to retire after the Borg, or after Madred. She thought about Darren's departure, and about what she'd heard; he hadn't said much to her about it but she had seen the look on his face when Will told him Darren was still in danger. Then Darren transferred, and life aboard the _Enterprise_ went on.

Beverly sighed. Of course, Deanna had mentioned Darren to shake her out of the anxiety and make her think, and it had worked. And the choice was still hers. Beverly could go back to him and say she'd thought it over, and life could be very different and rewarding. On the other hand, she too might find herself transferring to another posting. She found herself thinking about having him in sickbay after the Borg implants were removed, his pale body covered with scars, his skin cold and dry to the touch. The pain in his eyes when he awakened--which reminded her of the pain she'd seen there when Will confirmed that Nella Darren hadn't been rescued. Rationalize as she might, there were always consequences to deal with. She knew how difficult it would be to remain professionally detached in order to be effective; Odan's smile lingered on, even though her memory of his face had been blurred by time.

She returned the pictures to their box one by one, pausing to take one last look at herself and Jack, smiling and radiating the warmth and comfort of being in love and secure in each other's arms. Then she touched the face of the captain surrounded by his officers, stern and composed. Her friend.

"I love you," she whispered, laying the last frame to rest and closing the box.

*************

_Stardate 49792.1_

"It makes me wonder, though, what things you haven't told us about."

Jean-Luc smiled cryptically and reached for another scone. Last night, he had gone on and on about the hypothetical future Q had presented, and the amazing journey through time and space he'd been on. Now he wasn't saying a word, and she was certain he'd left things out.

"I realize that we've all agreed that those futures you witnessed had to be fictional. Telling us some of it more or less guarantees the worst won't occur. But are you sure there's nothing else?" Beverly kept her tone playful, hoping it wouldn't be perceived as a challenge. There were some things she didn't need to know, after all.

But his smile dwindled. Not for the first time, she wondered what was going through his mind.

"Penny?"

"We were divorced," he said matter-of-factly. "You were Captain Picard."

Beverly's chin dropped. She set down her tea cup before she spilled chamomile on her uniform. "Divorced," she blurted.

"But still on speaking terms, though your doppelganger was somewhat reticent to go along with my mad scheme." He might have been discussing the annual cargo bay inventory. He continued with the same mild tone. "I don't believe there were children. It seemed as though you had focused on your career with your usual dedication."

"You aren't making this up to tease me, are you? Jean-Luc!" Beverly took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "I suppose I asked for that, but you've always seemed so reluctant to talk about certain things, always kept things to yourself. Protecting me or you, I'm not sure."

"I answer when you ask. Most of the time," he added, still maintaining that enigmatic smile. A dare?

"Why did you stop having breakfast with me when you returned from being held and tortured by the Cardassians?" She regretted it the instant it flew out. It remained one of the unanswered questions between them, even after all the other personal thoughts had been aired, and for that reason alone she wondered from time to time.

Jean-Luc lost the smile. For a few moments, she thought she'd lost him, or the rest of breakfast, that he'd shut down and end the meal. Certainly there would be other breakfasts, but he'd never say a word and she'd never bring it up again. He looked at her steadily and didn't move.

Then he sighed, his gaze dropped, and a hint of a rueful smile appeared. "At first, I was too tired. As time passed and the real recovery began, in counseling, I couldn't manage it. I didn't want to see anyone, really. I'm sorry that I reacted as I did without explanation but I assumed you understood, and you didn't ask."

"It was different with me, Jean-Luc. You were returning to some activities. You went to Ten Forward, talked to Guinan, had lunch with Will, but you couldn't seem to look me in the eye."

Just as now he couldn't seem to look her in the eye. "Part of my time in counseling was spent dealing with rage and irrational guilt. I believed that you had escaped in the caverns until Madred told me he had killed Worf and kept you. At one point he offered me the option of release--he said he would let me go because he could get what he wanted from you. I chose to stay. I knew that he probably would have been torturing you anyway, but the idea that I had chosen to leave you there to be tortured in my place was unacceptable. Afterward, I had to face the knowledge that he had, of course, lied to me. Because you were so worried about me already, I didn't feel that it would serve any useful purpose for you to know about that."

Beverly stared at him and held her breath. The past seven years had been a time of highs and lows, of adventures she'd never dreamed about, and all that time she had been aware of and appreciated his friendship. She'd known that she would never have another friend like him in her lifetime, that this was something unique and worth preserving. Why should it surprise her that he would do such a thing?

"Thank you," she said at last, on the exhale. "Jean-Luc, I. . . I have no words."

"Then I chose the right time to tell you. I was hoping to avoid a scolding."

She might have, if he'd said anything at the time. "I would have done the same for you, you know."

His smile broadened. "Yes. However, I doubt that your gratitude will keep you from trying to convince me that I'd make a good lead for 'The Importance of Being Earnest.'"

"Of course not." He'd done it to shift her to lighter topics before she thought too much and talked about it some more, no doubt.

That was just fine by her.

*************************

That evening, Beverly reached Will Riker's door by seventeen hundred hours. Inside she found Will and Jean-Luc waiting at the card table, the deck and chips neatly stacked between them.

"Where is everyone?" she asked, heading for the bottles and glasses lined up on a narrow table against a wall.

"We were just talking about that." Will leaned back, arms crossed. How he could look so comfortable in the straight-backed chairs, she never understood. "Geordi's unaccounted for. Data is overseeing repairs on the sensor array, and Worf is in the holodeck with Alexander. Deanna said she'd come but she's not here yet."

"Probably still recovering from the poetry discussion group we were just at. You would not believe," she exclaimed, pouring syntheholic beer in a glass, "how very, very young they are making ensigns these days."

"That dire?" Jean-Luc commented. He sat forward, his forearms on the table, as she came to sit across from him.

"Tonight was 'bring a confusing poem' night. I've got to find a better activity. Put on another play. Since no one likes the idea of ancient comedy, I've started looking through works written in the past twenty years."

"What was so confusing about poetry?" Will asked, idly straightening the short column of black chips. He picked up the cards and began to shuffle.

"It was an old twentieth century poem by Stanley Kunitz. Computer, recite 'The Layers' by Stanley Kunitz."

The computer, she thought, was smarter now than it used to be; rather than reading out the words in its emotionless monotone, it elected to provide a recording of someone reading the poem. She watched her friends' faces as the words were presented to them by a soft male voice.

I have walked through many lives,    
some of them my own,  
and I am not who I was,  
though some principle of being  
abides, from which I struggle not to stray.

Jean-Luc's face changed at that point, from mild interest to something rather more intense. He glanced at Will, who appeared to have found something interesting about the backs of the cards as he shuffled and didn't raise his eyes.

When I look behind,    
as I am compelled to look  
before I can gather strength  
to proceed on my journey,  
I see the milestones dwindling    
toward the horizon  
and the slow fires trailing  
from the abandoned camp-sites,    
over which scavenger angels    
wheel on heavy wings.   
Oh, I have made myself a tribe    
out of my true affections,  
and my tribe is scattered!    
How shall the heart be reconciled  
to its feast of losses?  
In a rising wind    
the manic dust of my friends,    
those who fell along the way,  
bitterly stings my face.  
yet I turn, I turn,    
exulting somewhat,  
with my will intact to go    
wherever I need to go,    
and every stone on the road    
precious to me.  
In my darkest night,    
when the moon was covered  
and I roamed through wreckage,    
a nimbus-clouded voice  
directed me:    
"Live in the layers,  
not on the litter."  
Though I lack the art    
to decipher it,    
no doubt the next chapter  
in my book of transformations  
is already written,  
I am not done with my changes.

Jean-Luc stared at the stacks of chips, mouth set in a near-straight line. His eyes flicked up to meet Beverly's after long moments of contemplation. "I'm afraid to ask what they found confusing about that."

"They thought they weren't confused. That was the problem. They were going on and on about the layers and what it might mean, comparing them to rings on trees and what sort of wreckage the poet meant, and was the nimbus-clouded voice God or some sort of collective consciousness, that the poem was gloomy and sort of depressing, and finally I just couldn't take it any more."

"What happened?" Will smirked, probably imagining her haranguing a room full of ensigns.

"I told them it wasn't the tragedy they were making it out to be. That life is about change, and the layers are where you need to be, not wandering in the litter you leave behind--that living in your memories, being trapped endlessly in echoes of what happened rather than moving on through each new experience is the real tragedy. The author was saying that we don't have to be stuck in the loss. We don't have to lose what was so precious to us while we go forward. We've met milestones and moved on, and we are never done with our changes, and it's a positive thing, even if it's not always easy."

Jean-Luc sighed. She thought he might say something, but instead he raised his glass to his lips.

"Am I the only one who sees it that way?" she exclaimed, frustrated.

"Not at all," Jean-Luc said. "But it does sound somewhat melancholy. At least, that reading of it."

"Exulting somewhat," Will echoed. "Only somewhat. And I wouldn't say _every _stone in the road was precious."

"I would. Jean-Luc would." Beverly turned to him, expecting to see confirmation, but his eyes held some doubt. "After all you've recently been through, traveling back and forth in time looking at might-have-beens, are you going to say that the poem isn't describing life accurately?"

The door opened, interrupting, and Deanna hurried in. She'd changed into a bright blue dress and let her hair down. "At least you didn't start without me," she exclaimed, sitting across from Will. She glanced around at their faces. "What?"

"I'm sorry. I inflicted the poem on them," Beverly admitted.

Deanna gaped at her, then patted the velvet tabletop. "Deal the cards."

"It's not that I find it disturbing, or wrong," Jean-Luc began as Will pitched a card at each of them. "It's the sort of poem that makes one think."

"It makes _us_ think," Beverly said, peeking at her second card. Not a good start. "The group seemed--"

"Can we play cards?" Deanna exclaimed. "Please?"

Beverly stared at her. The counselor hadn't seemed terribly upset by the poetry group's reaction, yet she sounded exasperated by the current discussion, which she hadn't even been part of to this point.

"Is everything all right, Deanna?" Will asked.

"Fine. I just don't think it's necessary to start another poetry group--we already have one, and I thought I left it in Ten Forward."

Jean-Luc gazed at Deanna, sober and contemplative, until she glared back at him. He tapped his hand on the table and raised an eyebrow. Puzzling. What conversation might they be having, if Will and Beverly hadn't been there? Then again, knowing Jean-Luc, his counseling sessions might just be nothing but endless ruminating over life's ups and downs, and Deanna might be tired of hearing about it.

Poker wasn't fun for any of them, it seemed, and no one had a good hand. Jean-Luc threw down his cards before the end of the first round and went for another drink. Beverly pitched her miserable collection of mismatched cards face down as well. "Maybe we should call it a night," Will said, slapping his hand down and shoving chips at Deanna. "No one seems interested right now."

"I'm sorry. It's my fault for bringing up the poem." Beverly slumped and crossed her arms.

Deanna, who Beverly expected to react with continued ill humor, surprised her by turning thoughtful. "I don't know. I think it merely reminded me of the captain's recent experience."

"I thought we agreed that anything manufactured by Q was suspect and not to be trusted?" Will watched Jean-Luc coming back to his seat.

"That you did not have a future in Q's version of our lives means nothing, Deanna." Jean-Luc set the glass of ale down as he dropped into his chair. "Live in the layers."

Some of Deanna's usual warmth returned to her face as she smiled at Jean-Luc. "You're analyzing me, now?"

"Turnabout is fair play. At least you weren't assimilated or tortured in the hypothetical future."

"That you know about--and I thought we weren't supposed to live in the litter?"

Jean-Luc smirked as he gathered the cards for shuffling. "You're accusing me of being stuck in the past? After all that counseling?"

Deanna cast a glance at Beverly, appealing to her for support. Beverly sniffed. "Don't look at me. My 'future' wasn't particularly brilliant, either. I may have gotten a captaincy, but I also had a divorce."

Too late, she realized Jean-Luc might not want the others to know. He didn't look up from his slow dissemination of cards. Deanna said nothing.  Will sighed and tapped his incomplete hand on the table, scooping up his next card as it was dealt.

"I think," Jean-Luc said as he squared the deck in the center of the table, "that I like the poem."

"You do?" Deanna asked, sounding unsurprised.

"Yes. Because it reminded me of something." He paused, smiling, until all three of them stared expectantly at him. "We have been sifting through the litter when we should have been paying more attention to what was true even in Q's version of the future--that regardless of what happens to any of us, or between us, we remain friends. And not just friends, but family. No matter how long it had been, or how many arguments we'd had, all of us came together just the same."

Will beamed at him and glanced at Deanna. She also grinned, and looked Beverly's way. Beverly shrugged, and then the three of them smiled back at the captain. Though it wasn't clear to Beverly whether they were simply amused by his pride with his soliloquy or in agreement with him, it was certain that they were just as happy about the truth of his observation as he was.

"Aces high?" Beverly asked. She took her last card.

The door opened, and Data arrived, settling his visor over his head. "Am I too late to be dealt into this hand?"

Everyone pitched their cards at the captain. Jean-Luc smiled and regathered them for another shuffle. "Have a seat, Data. We were just discussing layers and litter."

Data cocked his head one way, then the other. "I believe I shall require more context to understand that reference."

"I believe I'll need a completely different context if I'm going to stay and play cards," Deanna said.

"How do you feel about the role of Ophelia?" Beverly asked, sliding her chair away from Deanna's to make room for Data.

"I hear it's a role to die for," Will said.

"It requires someone with a buoyant personality," Jean-Luc added.

Data, settling in his chair and reaching for his first card, frowned and tilted his head again. "Are you referring to Hamlet?"

"Yes, Data, I'm trying to figure out which play to organize next," Beverly said. "And though I was considering modern plays, Shakespeare has the advantage of being familiar to everyone, so I'll consider it as well."

"I see. Then I have to say that Deanna would be a poor choice for the role of Ophelia, as she is not mad."

"I thought a psychologist would have a better grasp of anyone on how to be mad," Will said.

"How to _act _mad," Beverly exclaimed.

"I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw." Jean-Luc finished dealing and picked up his hand.

"Prince Hamlet, I presume?" Deanna glanced around the room. "Is there anything to eat?"

"Although, 'handsaw' is really a corruption of 'hernshaw,' which is another word for 'heron'. So Hamlet was actually saying he knew the difference between two birds." Jean-Luc glanced up at Beverly from his cards. "Is something wrong?"

"Don't mind me. I'm just enjoying my current layer." Beverly got up and took her cards with her, managing a quick rub of her eyes with the back of her hand. She ignored Deanna's fond expression, the mirror of what Beverly was feeling. "I'm going to replicate some popcorn, anyone else want some?"

At least the evening improved from there. No one brought up the poem again, though there was an ongoing series of quotations from Shakespeare, thanks to Jean-Luc, and Beverly wondered if he weren't being pedantic just to keep the conversation safe. She'd thank him in the morning for that.

By the time Will raked in the last pile of chips, they had finished the bowl of popcorn and consumed many beers. Jean-Luc excused himself first; Deanna yawned and left not long after. Data helped put away chips and Beverly went back and forth collecting glasses, crumpled napkins and other debris to toss in the recycler.

"If you're really thinking of producing Hamlet, sign me up," Will said, folding the legs of the table. "Good night, Data."

"Good night." Data headed for the door, pulling his visor off his head and twirling it on his finger jauntily. Beverly exchanged grins with Will over it. Data seemed more and more human all the time.

"What role were you considering? I could see you as Polonius, maybe."

The door closed behind Data, leaving them alone. Will leaned the folded table against a wall and turned to face her. But he was quiet for a moment, and their eyes met, and she wondered what he was about to say, because it seemed an odd moment; something in his expression set off a warning in the back of her brain.

Then he shook his head as if dismissing a thought and said, "Not the ghost?"

"I was hoping I could get Data to be the ghost. I'm also hoping that Jean-Luc won't be able to resist taking on Claudius."

"He certainly knows the lines well enough. He could probably do the entire script himself." Will shook his head. "I'd pay to see it, too."

"Good night, Will."

He didn't respond as she turned for the door, waiting until she reached it to say, "I'm curious about something."

"What's that?" She hesitated, and when she didn't move through, the door shut again.

"You said something about being divorced, in the Q version of our lives. Who. . . ."

Beverly sighed. "Don't worry, Will. It wasn't you."

"That wasn't what I--never mind." But he seemed to recover in seconds, in time to add a more typical response. "I knew it wasn't me. I couldn't possibly have been that stupid, in any version of reality."

Beverly pivoted a full one-eighty to meet his gaze, crossing her arms. "Really?"

Will shrugged, grinning mischievously.

Beverly smiled, taking a lighthearted tone. "What makes you think I'd have been stupid enough to marry you in the first place?"

He laughed with her, and to her surprise he crossed the room. "Touche."

"Will?" Beverly took a step backward, eyeing him.

"Have you thought about it, really?" he said, stopping and putting his hands behind his back. For a moment, she had believed he intended to reach for her.

"I suppose you're wondering who I _was_ stupid enough to marry," she said, immediately kicking herself. But she did not want him to continue talking about what she thought he might be considering.

Will rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Well, it wasn't Worf, and neither Data nor Geordi are your type. That leaves--"

"The rest of Starfleet, the general population of the Federation, and a few dozen species we haven't encountered yet?"

"If you want to get technical about it. But it seems to me the more logical assumption would be--"

"Sorry, Deanna isn't my type, either." Beverly winked at him and left him gaping. "Good night, Will."

******************

_Stardate 52349.4_

No one was in Ten Forward. Beverly went behind the bar to make herself tea. The lights were down low and most of the room in shadow, so when Will came at her out of the darkness she nearly dropped her cup as she turned to go around the end of the bar.

"Good play," Will said.

"You sound as tired as I feel." She carried her teacup, hot against her index finger, to one of the tables near the viewports. Will rustled around behind the bar and eventually joined her, a tall mug of something in hand.

"It's been a long week."

"Yes." Beverly knew what he meant; returning to the ship after their adventure among the Ba'ku had been atypically difficult for some of them. Their captain had been completely distracted by a woman with bedroom eyes and a serene smile, perhaps more distracted than he'd been by the admiral's flagrant disregard for Starfleet regulations. While most of them could carry on like the professionals they were in the face of this, there had been a nearly unconscious shift in general morale.

"Is he back yet?" Will asked. The captain had gone down before dinner; they would be leaving orbit in six hours.

"What do you think?" Beverly looked up at Will, meeting his eyes across the table.

"Are you upset?" Will kept a straight face, so she responded in kind.

"I want to use this opportunity to deliver a lecture, Commander Riker. I want you to take notes. Living your entire life out of balance, devoting every moment and every thought to the singular pursuit of your career, is unhealthy and leads to flawed judgment and rationalizing away your decisions as being made for the good of the Federation, when in fact your unconscious is finally putting its foot down and demanding equal time."

Will snorted. "I thought your degree was in medicine."

"Well, Deanna has been a little distracted."

"No, actually, she's hiding in her quarters. I think she tried to talk to Worf.  It didn't go so well." Will sipped; his facial expression, lit from the left by a half-intensity wall sconce, seemed serious and a bit sad. "There was never an opportunity for them to resolve things, you know--one minute they were breaking it off, the next he was gone."

"So every time she sees him the old wounds are just as fresh. I can relate to that."

"Are you only upset with the captain on a professional basis?"

His impertinence rankled. She sat back in the chair, dropped her hands to her lap, and glared at him.

"Rumors, Beverly."

"Rumors frequently have nothing to do with reality, Will, otherwise you'd be in your quarters around the clock with a line of young women at the door."

"Oh, touche." He chuckled and nudged his mug aside a few centimeters. "And you are upset with him."

"He was my friend before we found this place. He'll be my friend after. He still is at this very moment but you know, I hate watching a man I respect so much doing this to himself."

"Falling for a woman, you mean?"

"It isn't her, Will. He'll remember her well enough years from now, but he won't be back again. He never is." She glanced over at the bar. "If you want to see him again, you have to be here, on the _Enterprise_. He never sent me so much as a note for so many years, after Jack died. When I came aboard he was uncomfortable. Do you think Guinan has heard from him since she left?"

Will dragged his mustache over his lower teeth.

"We are what he has, Will. His officers are his best friends. While I'm certain any of us would come running if he needed our help, just as Worf did, I very much doubt we would hear from him much if we left the ship."

"What about you? How many people do you correspond with?"

The challenge wasn't surprising. She'd faced this herself, a number of times over the years, usually while looking in the mirror at the end of a difficult day. She'd felt as angry as Will sounded. It was a sore subject for him, too, apparently.

"I compose letters to Wesley, wherever he is. Maybe someday he'll get them. I have several friends at Starfleet Medical; maybe a lot of what we discuss is research-related, but there's a lot of personal content in our messages as well. And I actually got something from Kareel a couple of years ago, and we've been exchanging letters every other month or so."

"Kareel?"

It was so easy for him to forget. "Odan?"

"Ah!" He paused, taking a long pull on his drink. "Odan."

"My point is, I'm trying to build relationships beyond what's convenient."

"So you're angry at him because he only takes advantage of what's convenient?"

"If I'm angry at him, I'm angry at you as well." Beverly knew, just by watching Deanna over the past few weeks, that she and Will were rekindling the old flame.  Her concern for Deanna wasn't something she quite understood just yet; on a cognitive level, she knew the two of them were close, had always been close, and they were smart enough and experienced enough to understand the risks of relationships with other officers. Hell, Deanna was still dealing with the lingering aftermath of the last one.

"You have an objection with something I've done," Will half-asked, his tone cool.

"Not exactly. You have a history of making and breaking contact. We all do. Are you going to tell me I can't worry about any of you?"

Will grinned, slumped back in his chair, and glanced around at the empty tables. "I'm not going to tell you that. But you don't need to worry about me."

"I don't need to worry about Jean-Luc, because he gets what he asks for, and I don't need to worry about Deanna, despite her insistence that she's fine while it's plain she's not. I don't need to worry about you because you took a couple of decades to learn from experience that all the pretty ladies in the galaxy can't make you forget the one you left behind on Betazed years ago."

"So what did Kareel have to say?"

"She thinks about me from time to time. She married and retired from the diplomatic corps. Her daughters are beautiful."

"Good. Sounds like a happy ending."

"No. It's a happy change."

"All right, it's a happy change." Will's grin dwindled to a mere smile. "Why do you think that is, that we say it's a happy ending?"

"Because at the end of the play tonight, the audience wasn't thinking about the characters going home to bed, waking up the next morning, and going to work. They remember the characters fighting to clear the lead's name, to prove the murder was committed by the antagonist, and they remember the moral of the story."

"Okay. So the resolution of the plot is the ending of the plot but the beginning of normal life." Will's smile vanished. He stared at the table for a long moment, then his eyes flicked up to meet hers. "Life is not a stage. Not all of us are players."

"Not all the time, no. Sometimes we go home and do things that make the stage possible. We tend to forget the role of the people handling the maintenance, the set dressing, the costumes, making the coffee and cleaning the theater."

The smile returned. "Is that why you're always so appreciative that I stay after and help you clean up?"

Beverly thought about all the times her friends had been there for her. This was not an easy life, being nomads across the quadrant, and as she had been saying, maintaining relationships became difficult.

"Yes," she said, matching Will's fond smile. "Always."

"So really you're upset because the captain doesn't stick around to clean up after the play?"

Beverly snorted. "That's one way of looking at it."

"Have you mentioned this to him?"

She glanced down at her empty teacup, contemplated getting another, and decided against it. It was late, and getting later. "I'll tell him about it at breakfast. Not that he'll necessarily listen to me any more than he's listened before."

Will sighed as he rose with her and turned toward the door. "We all work out our lives at our own pace. Sometimes with the help of our friends, other times in spite of it."

"And what would change if he did stick around after the play?"

They left Ten Forward, turning left down the corridor. "He'd probably recite 'The Tempest' while straightening the chairs," Will said.

"And 'Macbeth' while he picked up the props."

"I'm thinking either 'King Lear' or 'Twelfth Night' while moving the costumes to the cleaning alcove." Will preceded her into the lift. The ride to deck seven was about ten seconds long, and he lingered in the door, keeping it open. "Good night."

"I hope Dee's okay. Let her know I'm free for lunch tomorrow, if she wants to join me."

Will smiled, saluted her jauntily with two fingers to his forehead, and sauntered down the corridor. Beverly rode another level and headed for her quarters. She should have been in bed two hours ago. She had early appointments in sickbay. Physicals were called for; she wanted to continue monitoring the lingering aftereffects of metaphasic radiation. Despite everyone's insistence that they felt fine, she knew well enough that sometimes, people couldn't always tell when an underlying condition needed attention.

She smiled when, as the lift halted and the doors opened, she stepped out into the empty corridor with the exquisite timing of someone who'd ridden turbolifts thousands of times. There were messages waiting for her to read; she'd neglected them for the duration of the mission. Hopefully, there would be something from Dr. Quaice. She hadn't heard from him in a while. And Kareel might have sent more pictures.


End file.
